Birthright
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Yellow Fever tag: Dean's struggling, and Sam looks to the past for help.


_This piece was written for the KazCon (2009) fanfiction contest and appeared in the con zine _To Hell and Back

**Birthright**  
K Hanna Korossy

Something was wrong with Dean. A glance at the guy, sitting pale and withdrawn in the passenger seat of the Impala, would have told Sam as much, even if his behavior the past two days hadn't.

Sam had thought at first it was just the aftereffects of the fear virus. That kind of adrenaline OD had to take a while to come down from, not to mention Dean's inevitable mortification at having lost his cool over a cat, a bunch of kids, _cheese. _Appearances meant a lot to Dean, and while Sam hadn't teased him about the girly screams or his little breakdown in the bathroom afterward, he knew Dean would hate that his little brother had seen him like that.

But that didn't explain the suddenly violent nightmares. Or the shell-shocked, broken look Sam sometimes glimpsed now in his brother's eyes. Or the way Dean had suddenly started hardcore drinking, choosing Jack over Bud. Or the way he was barely talking to Sam, not like he was mad at him, but like he was too busy just holding himself together to deal with other people. Like Sam had ever been _other people_. It reminded him a little of Dean right after their dad died, and wasn't that a scary thought?

Sam couldn't help wonder if it had to do with Hell. Dean had denied he was starting to remember, but something besides a stupid fear virus was haunting him, and Sam had his suspicions. But that just left him even more unsure how he could help what would have to be the worst case _ever_ of PTSD.

"Hey," he said quietly, seeing Dean jolt in the corner of his eye. "You wanna head to the haunting in Buffalo, or the phantom hitchhiker outside Biloxi?"

Dean rubbed his eyes and shrugged one-shouldered. "Whatever, dude, you're driving."

_Yeah, and why is that again? _Sam wanted to say. But he didn't because he already knew. The way Dean was now, he could wrap them around a tree and not even realize it.

Sam chewed his lip. Neither of them had had their heart in looking for a new job and had just picked a few obvious ones. Although, Buffalo… Sam blinked. Huh. Maybe he'd had an idea without even realizing it.

He turned them north. Dean didn't even seem to notice.

If this didn't help, Sam didn't know what would.

00000

He wanted to go alone, but one of the few things that did seem to make any difference to Dean those last few days was Sam's presence. He just didn't have the heart to sneak out on his brother; no note or promise of return would make up for Dean waking up terrified in an empty room. And so after a dinner they'd both picked at, Sam had driven around awhile until Dean was lulled into a stupor, eyes flickering dully over the passing buildings. He didn't even stir when Sam finally pulled up to the curb in the middle of a non-descript block.

"I'll be back in a half-hour, Dean, all right? I want to check something."

Dean pulled himself together sluggishly, as if he'd been sleeping. "Found another bookstore, huh?" he asked with a small curl of the mouth.

Sam appreciated the effort. "Maybe," he said vaguely. "Make sure nobody jacks the 'pala."

That was a little more effective, earning him a scowl. Sam grinned and slid out of the car, heading around the corner to his true goal

He found the door easily and slipped inside, heading straight for the boxes piled along one wall.

Twenty-eight minutes later, he was lugging one out to the Impala, stashing it in the trunk before getting back into the driver's seat.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him, even though it looked like it took effort. "You buy out the store, Sammy?"

He smiled. "You'll see."

They got a room in a small but neat motel off the main road near Buffalo. It was quiet enough that Sam hoped they—_Dean_—could get some sleep, busy enough that the choked cry of a nightmare wouldn't bring everyone running. Sam watched dispassionately as Dean grabbed his duffel and a fresh bottle to take inside, and followed his brother in, toting his own duffel and the box.

By the time Dean wandered out after his shower, Sam had the box with _CAMPBELL_ written on the side cracked open and half its contents unpacked across his bed.

Dean actually noticed, stopping and frowning. "What's this?"

Sam gave him a wry smile, hoping he wasn't making a mistake. "I stopped off at Dad's storage space before. Thought I saw some stuff on Mom's parents the last time we were there, and I thought maybe you'd—"

Dean's face darkened. "What, want to take a walk down memory lane? Revisit the folks I watched get slaughtered?"

Sam looked down, idly spreading out photos with a push of a finger. "—tell me about our grandparents," he finished softly.

There was a long, long silence. He didn't look up, even when there was finally a stir of movement. And then Dean's knee was nudging him over as his brother folded down onto the bed next to him, his touch clumsily light as he turned pictures his direction.

Dean cleared his throat and held one up. "That was Grandma Campbell—she was an awesome cook, dude. Kinda like you'd expect a grandmother to be, you know? She made this amazing pot roast…"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, figures you'd remember the food."

Dean's elbow dug into his ribs. "Shut up. You wanna hear this or not?"

He finally looked up, met his brother's brightened eyes. "Yeah," Sam said, nodding. "I do."

Dean looked back at him a moment, then kept talking.

Sam knew he'd been named after his grandfather and Dean after their grandmother, but that would never get old. He also heard now all about how Samuel Campbell had preferred to keep the family business in the family, and how suspicious and reluctant he'd been with Dean. He learned about Deanna's diplomatic skills and salt-and-pepper shaker collection, Samuel's gift for costumes and role-playing in an investigation and total weakness for Irish coffee, and even a little bit more about Mom. He pretended he didn't see Dean tuck away a picture of the three Campbells, or hear when his brother's voice got a little rough. But it was the most animated Sam had seen Dean since they'd banished Luther Garland, and he couldn't be sorry for that, even when the memories choked Dean up.

Not to mention the peek into the family Sam had never had a chance to know. He wasn't jealous Dean had gotten to visit the Lawrence of '73, but he couldn't help resent that Castiel hadn't thought him worthy of sharing the experience with his brother.

He wasn't going to go there tonight, though, not with Dean finally saying more than two words together at a time. Sam just leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, and watched Dean flip through the photographs once more.

"You know, Samuel was a pain in the ass when it came to Mom and Grandma Campbell, but he loved them like crazy." Dean snorted. "He had more in common with Dad than either would have admitted."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, sounds like. I bet Dad would've loved to hear that."

Dean shook his head. "Probably part of what drew Mom to Dad. I just wish…" He trailed off, eyes distant.

"What, man?" Sam asked gently.

Dean's eyes slid over to him before dropping. "I wish I'd had a chance to tell him who I really was. I mean, before Azazel hijacked him. I guess he heard it before he died, but I never found out what he thought, you know?"

Sam chewed his lip, knowing how important what he said next was, how an empty platitude would just shut Dean down again. "I didn't meet the man, but…he'd be blind not to see that his grandson turned out to be a good person, someone who put family and others first. I mean, we got that from both sides, right? You're always strongest with family?"

He and Dean stared at each other a long minute, Dean's _I don't know how to do this_ coming up against Sam's silent _you went to Hell for me; let me be here for you_. All the things they couldn't say and that wouldn't have meant as much if they had, but that flowed in the silence.

Dean broke the gaze first, swallowing as he stuffed the pictures and papers back into the box. His gaze shied past Sam as he gruffly asked, "Wanna see what's on TV?"

Sam smiled, hope mingling with sadness this time. "I'll get the beer," he answered. It was better than Jack. And better than Dean struggling alone in his pain.

He didn't respond to Dean's whispered "Thanks, Sammy" halfway through Jeopardy, just as he knew his brother wouldn't want him to. But Sam still smiled.

**The End**


End file.
